Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

“That’s not something a mistress does—it’s all what a legal wife should do.”
“What elder sister did is what a legal wife does.”

Rokudaime Kikugorō’s rusty voice could be heard even outside the room.

On a midsummer evening, the sliding doors that partitioned the rooms had all been removed, leaving only bamboo blinds and screen-like light silk curtains hanging in each space. Even the everyday living area lay wide open.

Along the edge of the watered garden came the sound of two or three people’s footsteps. Kikugorō, wearing a plain white yukata with straight sleeves, walked in a student-like manner, followed by two women in refreshing summer attire.
The slender woman with a water-blue obi tied in a simple style—this was Yasuko, the wife—and behind her stood a woman with short hair, clad in gauzy silk the color of twilight, her unpowdered face tinged with loneliness.

“Honestly, elder sister—how futile. Even if you did such a thing.”

With those words, the master brought what seemed to be an ongoing conversation to a close.

The woman with short hair let slip a delicate yet alluring smile.
Her straight jet-black hair was tightly bound into a chignon and cut short without any soft waves or coquettish flair.
Her age would suggest she was around thirty-five, but though she made no effort to conceal it, this beauty of hers might yet make her appear younger.
Even so, in reality she might have been making herself appear older.
The garden lanterns glowed faintly while the lights inside had been deliberately placed only in distant spots—an exquisite arrangement.

“It’s Ms. Okoi.”

She had thought as much—but…

The woman with short hair quietly folded her small white fan and tucked it into her chest—a subdued color scheme—her obi too was a mouse-gray tinged with water-blue, the hues of its tied-back portion equally unobtrusive.
The tip of the white fan—only the part concealed by her obi—rested snugly beneath her left nipple like an autumn butterfly alighting…

Like a morning star beginning to emit its scent in the black night sky, each time she raised her eyes, her starlit pupils glimmered intermittently, revealing a nostalgic twinkle.
Her lips and eyes brimming with infinite charm, wearing a plain black ro summer coat, the woman departed, leaving a graceful impression.

“Truly, that woman is too virtuous for her own good...”

That was the sigh of some elderly woman.

Ichi-sei Okoi—that was what they called Lord Katsura’s Okoi.
Nisei Okoi—and that too, not losing to her sister’s good fortune—was called Saionji’s Okoi.
The name “Okoi of Terae Omi” was auspiciously revered as a dragon-gate talisman for social ascension—one that would see her become the prime minister’s beloved mistress.
Though names like “climbing carp” or “ascending the waterfall of success” were auspicious monikers drawn for their vigor, the feat of two generations rising together was deemed unprecedented—even in Shinbashi, where celebrated geishas were plentiful.

Okoi of Terae Omi—that woman who had been dazzling, bright, and carelessly beautiful—when one contemplated whether she could be the same as that modest woman with short hair, the disparity was so stark that it even invited doubt as to whether one had turned to a different person’s page.

In the pages of my memory—there were pictures too.
There were also memoranda.
They were all merely things observed from the sidelines or heard secondhand, but I intended to bring out those memoranda even before hearing from the person herself.

When the 30th Anniversary of the Capital's Establishment was celebrated as a grand civic event across the entire city, each district competitively hosted various elaborate entertainments.
The geisha districts’ preparations were particularly magnificent.
The world prospered; it was spring’s third month when cherry blossoms bloomed. His Sacred Majesty, presiding over the myriad affairs of state with divine approval, had designated this capital thirty years prior. Now the nation’s prestige swelled daily in jubilant celebration. The well-fed populace sought to display their joy in honoring this sacred era—to make even the heavens bear witness. People poured every ounce of ingenuity into devising lanterns, ornaments, banners, and curtains, parading through streets transformed into flower-filled lanes.
Among these spectacles, particularly notable was the daimyo procession—an inspired concept that served as prime entertainment.
It was modeled after the alternate attendance processions of former daimyo with vast stipends and prestigious lineages, complete with an inner retinue modeled on historical precedents.
Costumes and furnishings were prepared with maximal opulence and brilliance.
For this grand assembly, first-tier individuals—actors, geisha, patrons, painters, performers, storytellers, drummers, and those who spared no expense—assumed principal roles. Even footmen, palanquin bearers, companions, and porters carrying long chests were competently assigned. Those knowledgeable about former shogunate affairs supervised each role according to status.
With a concept so ingenious it seemed truly unrepeatable, they layered unlined robes of red and pale yellow—even including a monk clad in a juttoku robe—while silver tea ceremony utensils followed in procession.

I saw the procession pass by at Yanagibashi.
Of course, the local geishas—wearing fully lined long-sleeved kimonos and overrobes—mingled with ladies-in-waiting, chambermaids, and geishas from other entertainment districts, making them immensely popular during the procession’s passage.

On the backwater side of Yanagibashi, one or two houses away from the base of the bridge, there stood an elegant mistress’s residence—its second-floor street-facing balcony adorned with a railing and a tastefully arranged fence below. If one went through the back, they would soon emerge into Yoshikawachō and could make their way to Wakamatsu-ya, a geisha house with an old signboard. The mistress of the concubine residence was a woman called Koito, the first-generation geisha of Wakamatsu-ya, and her name was Omaru-san. At that time, Wakamatsu-ya had both a third-generation apprentice geisha named Koito and the second-generation Omaru present. (That Omaru-san is now the wife of Kineya Rokushirō.) The Omaru-san from the mistress residence was a slender woman who looked good in a black crepe haori—even on such days, she wasn’t particularly dressed up—but she was a likable beauty, kept by Furukawa Ichibee of Ashio. Invited to that second floor, I gazed upon so many beautiful women that their faces mirrored one another.

Whether Okoi of Terae Omi had been among those beautiful court attendants in the procession, I soon acquired a vividly colored portrait of her. There she stood—a mesmerizing figure beneath cherry blossoms, holding a tanzaku poem strip. Her hair was arranged in a Takashimada-style chignon above a fully lined long-sleeved kimono embroidered with vertical arrows. The tortoiseshell hairpin gleamed with subdued elegance; the flat braid lay perfectly arranged. The swell of her chest beneath the kosode, the spill of scarlet crepe silk from her underrobe’s sleeves—every detail enchanted. Since then, the name of the beautiful Okoi has remained indelible in the pages of my memory.

II

“This is a gift from the wife of Nozawaya in Yokohama, you see.”
“Apparently, Rokudaime-san addresses her as ‘Mother’ in that manner.”
“It must be out of respect, I suppose…”

The female shopkeeper explained that while the gifts varied—sometimes clothes, sometimes hand tools, sometimes bedding—they always had the same person deliver them.

“The households of Mr. Hazaemon and Mr. Umekō, and then Rokudaime-san.”
“Rokudaime-san is an appendage, you see.”
“Well, even a hibachi or anything—she prepares them all and gives them away.”
“She’s quite the patron, you know.”

The proprietress—an Edoite with crisp enunciation, reminiscent of Okitsu from Izumi Kyōka’s *Tatsumi Sodan*, who took pride in commissioning and delivering only the finest wares even for women—let out a scornful chuckle amidst her own exhaled smoke,

“But Ms. Okoi has such a commendable spirit.”
“The ones calling her a fool are the real greedy ones.”
“Well, she’s quick to act—when those gifts from Yokohama arrive, she’d turn right around and hand them out with a ‘Here, why don’t you take this?’ So refreshing.”
“What’s good is she doesn’t fear exposure one bit.”
“I did like her.”
“There were times she’d run errands herself to deliver them—watching her brought such relief I’d say ‘Why hesitate? Just do it.’”
“If the master made a fuss, she’d just have another one made—so she’d goad him on.”

As she said this, she deftly tapped the ash from her pipe into Hatsugeppō.

“But Ms. Okoi wasn’t exactly ordinary either.”
“For all her carefree nature, Tachibanaya was drowning in debt back then.”
“She might never have grown weary of it herself, but her mothers wouldn’t allow it.”
“Now Hazaemon’s mother was truly good-natured—the sort who’d face whichever way you pointed her—but Ms. Okoi’s lot wouldn’t hear of it.”
“The whole scheme behind marrying her into Ichimura was this: if they let her keep philandering, she’d never quit. So marry her off proper, they thought—that poverty would keep her restless rear from settling down anyway, and nothing kills a love affair faster than hardship.”
“No lie either—those foster mothers ruled with iron fists.”
“Oh yes, two of them! Shouldering two mothers’ whims—that woman’s back must ache from the load.”
“And every decision hinged on those mothers besides.”

The scene from that time when Okoi, the popular courtesan, took her place before the long hibachi in the Ichimura household—where Otsuma with her freshly washed hair had been forced to sit—became visible through Oshime-san’s account.
Otsuma, as a woman in despair, watched from the second floor of a house in Sanjūkkenbori through the shade of willow leaves along the avenue as Okoi’s bridal procession—thirteen loads of luggage covered in blue arabesque-patterned wrapping—departed, or so I later heard.
It was said that Otsuma had remarked how Okoi would soon share her own fate—and indeed, within two or three years, Okoi too could no longer bear being the one seated upon the cushion before that long hibachi there.
Even as a beloved wife, once becoming part of the household, her treatment changed; moreover, her status as a public figure meant any pretext could be fabricated against her.
To make matters worse, household finances grew strained; Okoi’s treasures continued to dwindle away.
That they could no longer pretend not to see came as the result of whispered discussions between the two elderly foster mothers who required her support.

Out of sight, out of mind—was parting met with tears or scorn? Okoi's fame burned brighter after her return to service than in her vanished glory days.
She became known as Ms. Okoi of Hazaemon and Ms. Okoi of Lord Katsura—the celebrated courtesan of her age.
Whether through her former husband Hazaemon at his zenith of popularity, her later husband who served as Prime Minister and Army General, or the whirlpool-patterned epicenter of attention—that popular actor called the "Nikopon Prime Minister," an unprecedented star during the Russo-Japanese War—Okoi's name was trumpeted far and wide.

“Oh my, Ms. Haru—Hazaemon’s wife these days—is such a diligent worker.”
“She does have her own resources, but those foster mothers are so overbearing—they won’t let her exhaust them.”
“Since that wife arrived, every last debt has been settled.”

When Hazaemon was young—his skills still unpolished, his wages meager, the household weighed down by debts inherited from his predecessor—it was Otsuma with her freshly washed hair who sacrificed everything down to her very skin to sustain them all.

In the end, braving a world that would not bend to his will, the eighteen-year-old young master Ichimura had all but thrown himself away.
Otsuma, bound by that sentiment, did everything she could, but in the end, it was Okoi who ended up getting married.
By that time, Hazaemon was no longer the callow youth of yesteryear; though burdened with debt, he had become a sought-after young actor.
As for the era of the wife who came after that, it emerged from the zenith of Hazaemon’s life when he had most vigorously extended his dominance—and this fortunate woman swept away all the fruits of toil cultivated by those who came before her.

“Ms. Okoi had so little greed—she was practically careless—so Hazaemon just couldn’t keep up, you know.”
“She’d give away anything she could get her hands on right away.”
“If one of the staff came by saying, ‘I’d like to give you something,’ she’d pull out a new raccoon-fur hat that had come her way—‘Here you go!’—and hand it over, just like that.”
“That one thing says it all—it was quite something, I tell you.”

The hunchbacked shamisen teacher, basking in the mild autumn sunlight that warmed his back and in a cozy contentment, fiddled with his ear using a kanze twist while giving a slight, cat-like shiver.
Thinking the listeners would be interested in details of the popular actor’s household, he maintained a calm expression of vacant drowsiness.

Then, a man over fifty with a hoarse voice—dressed in karazanshitate (striped cotton) and of indeterminate occupation, part box-maker, part manservant, part shamisen craftsman—who had brought the replacement for the thick shamisen string to show them, became the one to respond,

“After all, isn’t it said that she borrowed money without a care?”

With that, he was diligently adjusting the sawari (first string).

“Well now, I don’t know whether that’s true or a lie.”

“No, apparently debts unknown to the master have been piling up without his knowledge.”
“Since even that careless fellow was shocked, she must have been doubly carefree a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

“If they told her to put this on—whether it was a crested kimono or whatever—she’d just grab whatever was there at hand, they say.”

“When she took a fancy to something, it did turn a profit.”

The hoarse voice cackled loudly.

“But people do say it’s remarkable. Speaking of the Azabu residence—they say the ceiling of that woman’s living room is covered in ancient chintz! Just imagine how many yen that must’ve cost—now that’s boldness for you! After all, you’ve got to be born a woman to manage such a thing!”

"But I suppose those two foster mothers are with her."

"That’s the troublesome part—though there’s already a house built right next to it."

I was vaguely taking in such conversations as well.

As the Russo-Japanese War neared its conclusion, the domestic situation grew increasingly unstable.
The no-confidence motion against the cabinet erupted into clamorous uproar over what was denounced as an unjust peace settlement and unmet demands.
Rumormongers claimed a minister was hiding in the residence of Okoi, the favored mistress, advocating for her Azabu villa to be burned down.
In Hibiya, riots erupted—streetcars were torched, while police boxes, stations, and pro-government newspaper offices at prominent city locations began being destroyed. Citizens swelling with righteous indignation over their loyalty to the nation were whipped into frenzy. Martial law was declared across the entire city, and soldiers bearing rifles with drawn swords gathered in scattered groups along thoroughfares, patrolling urban districts.
Several innocent civilians perished, sustained injuries, or were thrown into prison.
As for where Okoi hid during this turmoil—her residence naturally had guards stationed throughout the vicinity without exception.

At that time, Okoi stood at the zenith of her renown, her influence surging powerfully.
Many political operators naturally frequented her premises.
Iwashita Risha of Osaka numbered among those who paid court most assiduously.

Once the autumn wind blew, the single leaf of Katsura—the one that sheltered the realm—scattered. Many had thrived under the shade of that great tree. And none could escape their downfall. Without sheltering boughs, daylight exposed all mercilessly. Cold frost fell; a desolate drizzle seeped through. The withering wind blew without respite.

Mr. Iwashita, once celebrated for his extravagance, met his fate when he stumbled into a scandal and found himself bound for prison.
The celebrated Okoi, too, came to keenly realize the harshness of the world.

The 50,000-yen inheritance distribution—this was in name only. Rather than being apportioned for Okoi’s sake, it stemmed from her having taken in and raised Taizo and Masako: the duke’s six- and nine-year-old illegitimate children, brought to the verge of being disavowed by his legal wife.
Okoi had to cut her hair short for this reason and found herself being called “Mother” by children she had never expected.
Could such considerations have arisen from Okoi herself? They could not possibly have done so.

In Yanagibashi, there existed a house called Ichifujii that kept many geishas under its roof.
There, it came to light that one of their obscure contract geishas had somehow become Lord Katsura’s illegitimate child’s mother.
Okoi came to handle such delicate matters.
What must Okoi have felt when a woman young enough to be called “younger sister” addressed her as “Mother”?
She kept the woman under her care until fashioning her into a presentable young lady of some standing, then reportedly felt relief upon marrying her off.
Yet before long, the fifty thousand yen slipped all too easily through the hands of various people.

“That’s not how a mistress should behave.”

When considering those things, that phrase came to mind.

Around that time, the straitened circumstances of Okoi’s life were briefly let slip from Ms. Oshime’s lips.

“Even things she lavished money to create—she ended up parting with them for a pittance like this.”
“How pitiable. Though the mansion remains as it was before, it’s hardly worth mentioning now.”
“Nowadays, there are times when rice merchants come demanding payment with intimidating faces, you know.”

Perhaps even Ms. Oshime felt some emotion—her gold false teeth glinting faintly, a slender pipe stem a quarter-inch thick clenched between them, two vertical wrinkles creasing her brow—as she kept her gaze downcast.

"Even hair expenses and everything else—with things as they are now, there's no income left for any of it."
"But she's so pitiable."
"With that temperament of hers, it must be tough."

At that time, there was a young man at the Azabu house who alone was said to be devoting himself sincerely to Okoi’s affairs. When people came again after some time had passed, they now spoke of how even side dishes were being laid out beneath for the young man’s entertainment.

“Whether it’s meals or anything else, they do everything properly—sharing them with Ms. Okoi,”
“Though if that person manages to establish themselves, Ms. Okoi will have another hardship by then, won’t she?”

The retired elders spoke as if muttering helplessly about their own gaudy customs and how Okoi herself, no matter how dire her circumstances, remained exactly as she had been in days gone by.

Ms. Oshime also said that Okoi’s true parents were unknown. She added that while people claimed she was Kiyomoto Kurayu’s child, this was an adoption—that a woman who had worked as a maid at Yayoi in Hamacho Hanayashiki had taken a child received from atop straw and married into a family.

“Ms. Okoi excels at Kiyomoto—her foster father drilled her in it,” she said. “Around thirteen, she began assisting Ms. Yayoi before entering the flower and willow world.” Her voice softened. “Such a splendid rise she had… but what awaits her now must be lonely. Once the burden lifts from her shoulders, she’ll find herself already aged.”

I secretly hoped that even if the later story of the celebrated Okoi were to be served as sashimi, it would remain freshly prepared—vibrant and of excellent quality.
Then came the sorrowful news: Okoi heard the fishy rumor that a monk from Eiheiji Temple had become someone's kept patron.
"Oh dear," she despaired.

It was not that I wished for this, but had I heard that Ms. Okoi—nourished by an earnestness she had never before known in her life, awakened alongside a promising youth—had left the inheritance to the children and foster mothers, and together they had reached a state where calluses formed on their palms through honest labor, how I would have rejoiced! I might even have proclaimed, "Long live Ms. Okoi!" Yet however much she might wish to linger in warm bedding and dutifully obey her foster mothers' will—for a woman of all people to become a monk’s mistress! What moral decay must have festered in her heart! Precisely because she was a woman I admired, this disgust felt not like another’s affair but my own. Even if one argued that love cannot be dismissed simply because he is a monk, Okoi—having gone so far as to abandon that young man, or even if abandoned herself—would have no reason to choose becoming an elderly monk’s mistress instead. In that choice, there must inevitably be entangled base motives stemming from material things.

It was reported that she was in Ōmori.
It was reported that she was hiding in Namamugi.
It was reported that she was concealing herself in Kamakura.

O woman of many sorrows—could she look back upon her own past without tears? Could it ever be told?
I had recorded too much—phantoms of memories heard from afar and glimpsed through distant eyes.
To not approach and know her clearly as she was today risked constructing her entirety from heartless rumors and remote impressions.
Yet as if by celestial design, she blazed before our eyes like a comet—
the café in Ginza, National, being the shop she had newly opened.
I resolved to go there—to draw near and know intimately the her that would be narrated through her own words.

III

In the waning days of the ninth year of Taisho (1920), at dusk, I entered—or rather drifted into—the bustling human whirlpool of Ginza.

Ginza before Christmas was a fierce competition of decorations, and particularly at the hour when the lights were lit, the dazzling glare surged in a ferocious wave of commotion—as if declaring that those not attuned to the cutting edge of fashion had no right to enter.
While being made to deeply feel that this must be the current of the metropolis, I pressed on――

Who would think—upon coming to Ginza—that this was the year-end rock bottom of the Great Depression following the World War, a crushing wave that had rushed in right after this year's cherry blossoms scattered? Here, watches, furs, jewels, and shawls flaunted their exorbitant prices.
And the people moving through that crowd carried shopping in each hand.
Shiseido, which sold high-class cosmetics, was overflowing with people.
It wasn't just women; men were numerous.
Sekiguchi Western Goods Store had fashionable shawls hung in rows; its brightness reminded one of Paris, and the shop too was bustling with people.
At Mino-tsune, hats and gloves and shirts—everything was a sea of black and white to such an extent that one could not distinguish staff from customers.
I walked through it all in a daze.

Brilliant laughter rang out.
When I came to my senses with a start, I found myself standing in a blinding glare.
Before me, five or six women in beautiful shawls parted the crowd and brushed past me.
Right behind them came a group of neatly dressed young gentlemen in Western suits, their attire perfectly opaque.
I was flustered and disheveled.
The pins in my hair—dried from washing—had loosened, and as my bun began unraveling, I realized how utterly mismatched I was to this briskly moving throng I had to navigate—so acutely that I nearly turned back home.

In Sanchōme, at a modest little shop—the kind one wouldn’t expect to find on Ginza-dōri—a proprietress with shaved eyebrows was hanging a rag on the lower part of the back door. Thinking it best to ask, I inquired, “Where is Café National?”

“Hmm, I don’t know of any such place.”
“If you mean a Western-style eatery called a café, there’s one...”

I thanked her and walked away, thinking that even on Ginza-dōri there were such proprietresses running shops.

When I asked at the Owari-chō police box, the officer there said he didn't know.
Then, right beside me, there was a traffic police officer wearing a blue armband with white lines,

"Oh yeah, it's behind the Izumochō police box."

he kindly informed me.
Lately, I had grown quite accustomed to asking such things at police boxes or from officers, no longer feeling the slightest awkwardness or discomfort.
However, I felt uneasy that I hadn't clearly heard the word "behind."

Before long, I stood before the police box at the corner of Izumochō and bowed politely.

"I was told it's behind this police box—would that be this alley here?"

Then the young police officer—who appeared thoroughly unaccustomed to clerical work—stiffened in complete bewilderment and even went through the trouble of flipping open a ledger to check. I looked at the bright interior of Shiseido (restaurant), from which light streamed. White garments moved ceaselessly; white plates gleamed; forks and spoons sparkled; steam rose warmly from hot drinks; people came and went in seeming abundance. I too would sit down there, heal my fatigue, moisten my throat, sweep back my hair, and then head to the place I needed to visit. And thinking that if I asked there, I would understand immediately—as I resolved to do so—

“Turn to the side over there, then go right and see.”
“I seem to recall there was such a place.”

He had kindly and earnestly thought it through and informed me—though somewhat vaguely—that it seemed likely to be there.
Upon hearing this, I—interpreting “behind” to mean “the rear,” and having irrationally abandoned Shiseido’s invitingly warm beverages—set off in that direction despite knowing full well it was wrong.

The Tsukiji Naval Factory must have closed.
A mass of black clothing surged from the darkness toward the light.
The narrow sidewalk was occupied by their procession; those of weaker disposition were overwhelmed, recoiled, and had to stand waiting.
The young women clattered their wooden clogs, each similarly draping a thick shawl over their fronts, and walked on talking loudly.
They seemed utterly tireless—but after crossing through that bright town and scattering into dark alleys one by one, what state of mind would they be in?
As for my current self being in such a state—

There was no such house in Sanjūkenbori as the police officer had directed.
I circled around and emerged at the foot of Shinbashi.
At the corner stood a café with a side door where a waitress lingered half-visible; approaching without hesitation, I found her cheerful and kind.
With a faint smile, she pointed out that going from here would take me one or two shops before Shiseido and directly behind the police box.
I too began to smile.
Both this young woman and the young officer were good people—I keenly felt their kindness.
After thanking her and parting with a laugh, I circled back toward the police box vicinity while hoping to avoid catching the eye of that earlier officer.
Thinking how their earnest goodwill might come to naught and create awkwardness, I pressed onward.

A silk curtain tinged with the purple hue of winter mist hung over the wide single-pane window, damply glistening where gold letters spelled out "Café National." Without even a moment to examine the exterior decorations, I panicked and leapt into the doorway. Though one might enter a café simply wanting a drink, some peculiar stubbornness—this notion that women ought not approach such places turned into pleasure quarters for young people—had taken root in my hassle-averse heart before I knew it. With an odd shyness, I stepped through the door.

After informing the shoe attendant I wasn't a customer and stating my business, someone else emerged.
When I repeated myself again, this time a middle school-aged student in a kasuri-patterned haori and hakama formally came out to receive me.
In my dazed state, I repeated my request a third time.
Even had the protagonist herself known me, those surrounding her would've naturally found this peculiar visitor baffling.

A woman emerged—her hair parted at the front, features dignified, face entirely free of powder, appearance older than her years, clad entirely in garments that seemed black, refined yet resolute, her educated bearing evident at a glance—apologized for being unfortunately unable to meet, and exchanged a few polite words regarding tomorrow’s arrangements.
I felt relieved after coordinating with that person.

Behind the curtained tables, there must have been customers; under the staircase to the second floor clustered a group of beautiful women.
As I stood there with my back to the glass door, the thought that I was completely visible from the sidewalk made me unbearably self-conscious.

Now, here I must set down a few lines before moving on to tomorrow—for in attempting to write of Okoi-san, I realized I knew far too little of her recent circumstances. I had arbitrarily assumed the woman who attended to me at National must be the children’s tutor, having no connection whatsoever to the café’s business operations. When I later mentioned this to others, I was asked, “Don’t you read the *Miyako Shimbun*?” I was at a loss since I hadn’t read it, but that person explained it must have been her—the younger sister of Okoi-san, a remarkably capable proprietress who managed all the accounts. Of course, having learned she was her younger sister around the time I would later write about this, I wasn’t surprised—but now I shall attempt to recount the essence of that candid conversation I shared with these extraordinary sisters gathered around a table.

IV

That day, unlike the previous day, the rain was falling quite heavily.

The rain—not so cold—fell as if to wash away the remnants of snow from long ago, now filthy and frozen in the shadows of back alleys.
The temperature was mild for winter.
I hurried the rickshaw to arrive by the promised eleven o'clock.

The shop’s windows still had white curtains fully drawn down, and only one side of the door had a white cloth raised up.
Since it was morning, I opened the doorway without hesitation, entered, and requested guidance.

The interior of the shop—the interior with only one side of the doorway raised, a white cloth draped over it—was in chaos, as if before a curtain rose.
A scene three parts lingering sleepiness, seven parts dawn-like grogginess—as if daylight were peeking through.
I stood there, beholding the unexpected sight of what was called the "Café’s Morning Interval," feeling as though I were watching the preparations for a theater stage.

I hadn’t noticed it last night, but it had likely been propped up outside. A large-framed signboard announcing the Christmas Dinner event stood erected. It stated that meal tickets were three yen and so forth. At the base of the stairs was a red-paper poster with white lettering that read, "World Reformation Year-End Party at Yūrakuza."

A man who appeared to be a merchant’s clerk, wearing a hunting cap and striped kimono, stood waiting with an expectant look. From the back emerged a man in a haori that suggested concluded business matters; he switched from red-thonged zōri to tall geta before departing. I remained standing, awaiting assistance.

The entranceway screen—a fixture in any coffee shop—combined curtain and partition elements: light sepia silk stretched across slender smoke-darkened bamboo frames. Four pots of hinoki cypress and podocarpus sat languidly arranged nearby. Behind these stood several small alabaster tables. At one table’s edge, a petite girl folded napkins with practiced efficiency. A woman worked nearby—compress bandage on her neck, wearing only a crimson-patterned chirimen obi-age over her casual kimono’s elaborate obi—sweeping debris into a dustpan. Soon appeared a young man in short coat, his voice oddly strained—likely ravaged by liquor, tobacco, late nights and chatter—who shrilly inquired about my business.

The short man in a short coat seemed popular; within moments, everyone was talking to him.
At the base of the stairs, two or three girls cleaning the bar were calling his name—Ken-chan, Ken-chan.
One of the bar girls was saying something like this.

“I drank so much—every time I said ‘something,’ another glass; every time I went ‘whatever,’ another glass…”

“...If I had ten thousand yen, I’d spend eight thousand on an obi, and then use the remaining two thousand for... something.”

Ken-chan must have said something quite amusing at that time.
Everyone laughed heartily and cheerfully, but to those who hadn't caught it, what was being said remained utterly incomprehensible due to the shrill voices.
Then the girl who had been folding a napkin said,
"There's this man named Mr. Tada at Lion—isn't that just hilarious? Everyone goes, 'Alright then, Mr. Tada, this one's on the house! On the house!'"

That seemed to hold great interest for the one telling it.
At that moment, a man who seemed to be the head waiter, properly dressed in black clothes, came out to greet me.
And then I was guided to the second floor.

Upon passing through the front second-floor dining room, the intermediary room appeared to be the second-floor waitresses' waiting room. By the back staircase, four or five people were putting on kimonos and grooming themselves. I passed through there as well and was led to a secluded separate room.

A portable stove was brought in; there was warm tea, a newspaper, and a comfortable sofa.

However, when I considered that my little nephew—who was supposed to enjoy Saturday afternoon and go to Tsurumi together—must be waiting at school, the time I spent relaxing felt wasteful.
In the corner of the room stood a two-panel folding gold screen adorned with ink paintings; before it, on a table, a potted quince bore one or two pale pink buds.
I found myself gazing absently at the vivid crimson of a small vase placed upon a pure white cloth.

In the waiting room, there was a brief commotion,

“Will you also be going to the bath?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go with you, so please wait.”

It grew quiet.
Then there was a noise—whether in this house, the house behind, or somewhere in the lower part of the back area.

“The bath is ready...”

“Will you take the automobile or the carriage?”

It sounded like a manservant’s tone.
Soon after, from somewhere indistinct came the occasional clatter of dishes and forks.

When I thought, “It’s no longer morning—this shop has begun business,” there was a knock at the door.

V

Beautiful Okoi—I realized that when I unwound and opened what had been kept hidden in the keepsake box, a faint sigh of relief, joy, and contentment escaped me, as though its colors had remained unfaded. Ms. Okoi remained as she was that morning; her hair had not been freshly arranged. She wore no particular adornments. Her attire consisted of a plain chirimen undercollar tinged with indigo-purple, a striped omeshi silk kimono resembling everyday wear, and a haori jacket of omeshi silk dyed in a fine pattern—the style popular from last year through this spring—all together forming a somber, darkened ensemble.

What remained unchanged were her brows to her forehead—the Fuji-like hairline—and the brilliant dignity she possessed, along with the loveliness of her profile. Having come to visit, I rejoiced at being able to see these features up close.

Moreover, what caught my eye first was her Western-style bun.
When I first saw Okoi with her hair in that bun, she had been introduced as Andō Teruko—back when she served Duke Katsura and resided in Azabu.

Memories came flooding back in all their variety—one after another—from that era when Okoi could think of nothing but her own whims, an era when she seemed utterly untouched by the world’s sorrows.
In the floral month of March, people found great interest in being able to watch the dance performance of Prime Minister Marquis Katsura’s beloved daughter at the Takekashiwaen grand event’s entertainment held at the Nihonbashi Club.
This beauty—said to have been painstakingly taught by Sakuma Sajin-ō, the old master of the Konparu school, as his promising disciple—was to perform *Kumano* under her master’s guidance at the Kasuga event.

“Kumano,” “Kumano”—how profound its meaning was.

The beautiful woman wore a black kimono with a white collar and a hem patterned in pine and cherry blossoms shaded through gradations of color. Her face glowed radiantly, eyebrows faintly misted—the crowd stood transfixed.

When rain falls before spring, flowers bloom early.
When autumn passes cloudless, leaves linger before falling.
Beyond mountains lie more mountains without end.
On roads branch countless paths that find no conclusion: “Mountains blue, mountains white—clouds come and go.”
People rejoice; people grieve.
All these are but reflections of the world’s nature…

Fluttering sleeves, flickering fans.
Time and people aligned so seamlessly that I felt antiquity had materialized before my eyes.

As for rumors—no matter their nature—I, lacking the reckless courage to hurl thoughtless scorn at a person of my own sex, found myself feeling oddly relieved upon seeing that bun, which those ignorant of her true heart would likely regard with resentment. For I had long thought that short hair, if not in times past, in this modern age could not be said to lack a certain pretentiousness; and in form, those who need not prove themselves to be widows who had outlived their husbands ended up standing out no differently than if they had deliberately crafted an eccentric appearance. The fact that those whom people so fussily gossiped about took on such appearances made me think it was all the more likely to attract attention.

I said this:

“Please tell me about what you consider to be the most egregious misrepresentations made about you. While I’ve read nearly everything published about you in newspapers and magazines, I resolved to forget it all. When they write sensationalized things merely for entertainment—it’s intolerable. Readers can endlessly endure others’ suffering, after all; they delight in whatever amuses them most.”

She answered.

“Truly—at first I felt bitter, but gradually I grew accustomed. Then came defiance—until I thought, ‘Let them say whatever they please; let them write endlessly if they wish.’ And so I turned spiteful...”

VI

Her cheeks flushed crimson—not from the fireplace or drinks, but from a rush of blood.
Seeing that, I felt refreshed—and those who suddenly heard that Okoi was alive, a living dish of freshly sliced delicacy, perked up.
"I have so many things I want to ask you, but I’ve put them all aside—the matter of what happened after Lord Katsura’s passing... Since public opinion must be riddled with misunderstandings, I’d like you to tell me everything exactly as it was."

The reason I had so rudely begun speaking like a visiting journalist was because of those newspaper articles I had seen back then—after Marquis Katsura’s passing—that claimed no matter how much people begged to meet Okoi, his beloved concubine, her family would not permit it.
Being timid, I could not bring myself to ask such probing questions, and thus missed the truth of the matter—but what I stumbled upon was unexpectedly jarring (though “jarring” does not suffice), for to that person, these were matters in which good had been recast as evil and white proclaimed as black.
To convey that Okoi’s true intentions were as pure and unhindered as this, I resolved to record things exactly as they were.

This woman too was a woman of spirit. When resolved to cast off all burdens, she became a short-tempered, easily irritated soul—an emotionally-driven being indifferent to wealth, unconcerned with desire or virtue. I smiled, recognizing this shared weakness within myself. I found it exhilarating.

People might say this: That being swayed by trivial emotions makes one forget profit and loss, leaving lasting regrets—but should such a person exist, I would lift my face proudly and declare: Even those of icy rationality fail. Even those prone to passionate feelings fail. Who can judge which is right or wrong? The more complex one's emotions grow, the more a beauty's human essence deepens—

She took a silver knife in her white hand.
The red persimmon peel spiraled into a thin, beautiful strip.
The emerald glowed blue on her finger; memories swirled crimson in her mind, vivid and rewinding.
Her eye color was as clear and cold as an early spring morning, while her pupils glowed as feverishly as the evening star of early summer.

“The inheritance left for me amounted to 70,000 yen.”
“Then I took in three children as my own.”
“And yet, for what was left behind to be treated as though it isn’t mine—for others to quibble and carp while I, the one it concerns most, must bow my head just to collect a pittance of interest—how absurd is that?”

Such foolishness—at that moment, anyone would have retorted.
All the more so for me—though the figures differed—having a younger sister who shared such a fate, raising two boys while suffering amidst rising prices, I could not regard it as someone else’s problem.
Is there such a woman here too? Why must women be so oppressed, their rights trampled upon? Anger welled up within me.

At that moment, her younger sister Ms. Shigeko interjected for the first time.

“I have been living with my elder sister for five years now.”
“At first, when my elder sister was at the depths of loneliness, she remembered me and called me over.”
“My elder sister and I had completely different upbringings and circumstances—I thought going might not work out—but when I came and saw for myself, the reality was so different from what I’d heard that I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”
“I often recall how utterly isolated my elder sister was then—how truly lonely she must have been in her heart.”
“If those rumors spreading through society were true—if they were real—I wouldn’t have abandoned my own aspirations and spent five years helping my elder sister like this.”
“I would not become my elder sister’s sacrifice and take on roles like commercial bookkeeping or supervision.”

“...,” she said solemnly.
It must have truly seemed that way to her.
For someone raised in Akita who had entered the prefectural girls’ school and aspired to become a doctor, this was quite a divergence into commerce.

“It was truly pitiful for this sister—but if even she hadn’t been here—without beer or wine, I wouldn’t have known the names of Western liquors for this family business.”

Okoi lowered her eyes and laughed as if hiding her face,

“It was quite a struggle for me as well.”
“I couldn’t bear to leave my elder sister in such a pitiful state, so I stayed and shared in her various worries. Though I didn’t know about those times myself, when I later heard about them, it seems she had thought, ‘I’ll handle my own affairs—I don’t want anyone else’s interference or help.’”

Nodding at her younger sister’s words,

“Yes, that’s right.
“No, that’s not it. He never spoke of taking instructions from anyone, and even what’s called an inheritance—after his passing—it wasn’t as though they diminished the main estate’s holdings to allocate me a portion or anything of the sort.”

“So, was it originally yours to begin with?”

I had already forgotten all formality and rushed straight to what I wanted to ask.

“There was an esteemed son named Hirotaro—he had placed such trust in him that he instructed, ‘If I die, take this letter directly to my son immediately. Even without explanations, everything will be understood.’ A document addressed to him had been prepared with his name on the envelope. But since he passed away first, everything became tangled.”
“With all the back-and-forth turmoil, I endured a truly wretched year and a half.”
“The suffering during that time—whether it was hardship or not—defies words.”
“After all, I couldn’t lay a hand on that money.”
“There were three children, two foster mothers, and ten servants living in the old house.”

Ah, it must have been around that time—they reported that Ms. Okoi was living in poverty, claimed she had relinquished all her possessions, and spread rumors that it was all due to her promiscuity—

“It’s also because I was stubborn and quarreled with Mr. Inoue.”
“Because if you corner someone into stubbornness, they grow spiteful too! They thought if they made life hard enough, she’d come bowing her head—preying on the vulnerable like that—so I simply couldn’t yield and clung fiercely to my pride.”

“So what did they say they’d do with the property?”

“They said I must live solely on the interest and come collect it monthly.”
“Attached was this preposterous list of clauses—they told me to stamp my official seal if I agreed! Can you imagine?”
“Those clauses were utterly ridiculous! How could anyone expect me to say ‘Yes, this is acceptable’?”
“Next time I’ll show you—I’ve kept that so-called list safe.”
“It’s so absurd I’m thinking of framing it properly as a scroll.”
“And though *I* didn’t demand it, all those grand guarantors stamped their seals there—their precious proof.”

“Isn’t this utterly absurd? After all that commotion, when they finally handed it over, what had been over 70,000 yen had dwindled to around 50,000,” Ms. Shigeko also said. “I also—would Count Inoue and those marquises have had no purpose if not for such absurdities? Just who are these so-called guarantors, anyway? It seems there are so many people in the world with too much time on their hands—meddling in things they weren’t even asked to.”

“They’re doing things they weren’t even asked to.”
“The one who left it behind for me never made any requests of them, yet...”

“Don’t you see? They want to do this because they intend to let that person use it to their heart’s content.”
“Why on earth did they have to go and do such unnecessary things?”

“Truly, it is exactly as you say.”
“As for that money—he wasn’t some industrialist who amassed fortunes overnight. The Minister was poor, yet he still painstakingly set it aside with care.”
“When extra funds became available, he would say,‘I’ll set this aside as your share and deposit it in the bank,’and if he obtained stock certificates through temporary means,‘These are yours now,’giving them on the spot—so you simply deposited them in the bank.”
“Therefore, she had naturally assumed it was her own.”
“No matter how much she inquired about it, they gave no response and left it ignored. Then when she was summoned to Mr. Inoue, that’s when the matter of the list of clauses came up.”

1. Maintain chastity:
2. Not to act willfully regarding the children’s education,
3. Shall not go out for illicit purposes,

“Reading such things aloud and making me stamp my seal…”

Both those recounting the story and their listeners exchanged glances and suppressed derisive laughter.

“I’m not a wife—I told them straight out I’m a mistress.”

What a concise yet pointed—how refreshingly bold an answer!

VII

“So then—when he got angry—it was that famous firecracker temper of his, wasn’t it? I made it burst.”
“‘Bastard! You bastard!’ he roared at me, but I wasn’t scared one bit—I gave it right back to him.”
“First off—how could I possibly keep some ‘chastity’ promise?”
“I’m still young, and with my lord gone now, isn’t my future mine to decide? I can’t just casually make that sort of vow.”
“If I could do it, I would—but since I know full well I can’t, I won’t.”
“I can’t even know what my own heart will want by tomorrow—how could anyone make such an outlandish promise for their whole life? That’s exactly what I told him.”

It was said that this occurred on a day when snow fell heavily.

At the gathering were Hayakawa Senkichirō, Masuda Something, and other prominent figures assembled. Led into their midst, she found strength in having abandoned desire—it was her greatest ally. She no longer wanted to touch the entangled money. Rather than that, she wanted to become free and escape from her shackles sooner.

Thunder roared—the people standing between them were on edge. As the veins on Lord Sekigai’s forehead flashed, the assembled people, taking this as their cue to act, prostrated themselves in awe. And in whispers, they urged her to just nod and agree that it’s only reasonable, assuring her they wouldn’t handle things unfairly.

“You’re only doing this because you’re afraid of what might happen later if you anger that person.”
“I’m not the least bit afraid, so I refuse!”

There, in Okoi’s eyes, there existed neither the Meiji-era elder statesman Marquis Inoue nor the financial magnates. Merely a single woman—property, freedom, children’s education, everything—why would they look down on her as just a woman, gang up, and try to suppress it all? If this had been something her husband had requested while alive, that would be one thing—but this was unwelcome interference barging in from the sidelines.

Even if called a priceless urn, to those blind to its true worth, it seemed no more than a trinket not worth three pennies. Even the venerable old Marquis Inoue, worshipped as a sacred icon by materialistic dignitaries, was nothing but a meddlesome busybody to Okoi. Far from being an aloof sage, his hobby extended to prying into other households’ kitchen accounts—a pastime that made him an object of ridicule. Overseeing the nation’s coffers might be noble work, but as the proverb goes about old men’s follies, he had come to fuss over even another man’s mistress’s pantry.

That he had painted himself into a corner was truly unforeseen. He had arrogantly assumed no one in the world would dare oppose him—yet here his nose of pride was smashed to pieces, culminating in this retort.

“Because it seems too troublesome, I’ll hand over absolutely everything to you.”

And leaving behind the will with the inventory written on it, Okoi promptly went home.

The gatefront of Okoi’s house suddenly swarmed with laborers. Changing tactics and approaches, with kind smiles and stern glares, all manner of people came visiting, each devising their own schemes. They were comfort envoys, peace envoys, surrender persuaders. Okoi’s head refused to bow any lower. Among the many, there were two distinctive individuals. One man and one woman each—both famous figures.

The woman was Okinn, proprietress of Kiraku—a renowned figure of her time who had been recognized as an extraordinary woman.
The man was Sugiyama Shigemaru—dubbed “the Braggart of the political world.”

Through his frequent mediations and visits, Sugiyama gradually began listening to Okoi’s arguments.
He ultimately came to sympathize with her stance, recognizing its greater reasonableness.
In essence, those sent to persuade found themselves persuaded instead.
This man started advocating in ways that served Okoi’s interests.

It was then that the proprietress of Kiraku stepped forward, rolling up her sleeves as if declaring herself the one for the task.
Convinced that none but herself possessed the skill to persuade such an obstinate woman, she made her appearance.

At a single sharp rebuke from Kiraku’s proprietress, most geishas would shrink back in fear.
Whether becoming a popular geisha or rising as a respected elder sister, it was because when they made their debut, they caught the proprietress’s eye—skillfully guided and steered to grasp the reins of their destiny.
Thus, most geishas did not defy Kiraku’s proprietress.
Yet the sharp-eyed proprietress discerned that Okoi, at this juncture, would not yield to such intimidation.

One day, the proprietress donned a Buddhist stole and came visiting with a rosary in hand.
Okoi, who had cut her hair short, had taken vows and practiced Zen under Hioki Mokusen Shōnin—a Zen priest of Eihei-ji Temple in Echizen who had passed away just days prior—but the proprietress was also her companion in spiritual awakening.
The proprietress arrived in a solemn, meticulously conceived guise—

“Today isn’t the ordinary me.”
“Please look at this guise.”
“Given this stole I’m wearing, let’s talk without any quarrels.”

she said.

Okoi, who responded to that,

“Truly, Proprietress, it was good of you to come here in that guise.”
“In that case, I shall consider you someone I can truly open up to and have a proper talk.”
“Surely you, having gone so far as to come here like this, wouldn’t say the same things as everyone else.”

When she said that, the proprietress pulled a strange face.
And, as though thinking 'This is bad,' she—

“If you go saying things like that, I’ll be in a real bind.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“If I came here like this, you’d listen to whatever I said—or so I thought.”

revealed her true colors.

“That won’t do, Proprietress. If you were in your usual guise, I’d feel obliged… but since you’ve donned the stole, we can truly speak openly. First of all, aren’t you someone who’s had your share of hardships too? It’s because you only listen to what the other side says and won’t consider my position. Please give this some proper thought. Who do you think is the most pitiable here? I’ve been separated from my husband, and I’m struggling to figure out how to move forward—try putting yourself in my position. Even if they tell me to preserve my chastity—if I say ‘Yes, I’ll keep it’ but end up failing, wouldn’t that bring even greater shame? Such things aren’t meant to be promised. And then there are twelve children—many from different mothers—who were raised as your own! Because it would be pitiful for them if they were handed over again [to others], he made them entirely mine—so just whom am I supposed to ask for their education? Forbidding me from even going out—doesn’t that show they think of people as less than human? Even when my husband was alive, I couldn’t step outside without calling the main residence each time for permission—it got so bothersome I stopped even going to see plays. Just when I want to live carefree from now on, all these bothersome matters they bring up—and it’s all because of the money—I’ve truly come to not want it anymore. Since it’s originally mine, I’m just saying I’ll give it to Mr. Inoue.”

“You’re not wrong there, but now I’m in a real bind.”

Though she gave voice to being in a bind, the proprietress must have fathomed even the unspoken troubles weighing on her heart.
For I had once heard this proprietress let slip a sigh and speak of her past.

"I've had every kind of sorrowful experience there is and come to know every shade of tears."
"That's why, no matter what play I see, I find it interesting and moving."
"That's because I've sunk my teeth into something resonant in every one of them."

That was more or less how it went.
That small marumage hairstyle—its roots coiled tightly and rising sharply—seemed to represent one aspect of that woman’s persona, yet beneath that bun, truth had congealed and endured.
She too departed.

VIII

With all that behind her, she left Azabu and moved to Ōi.
The house in Ōi Village was quite spacious and had another small dwelling some distance away, surrounded by plum and peach trees.
The foster mothers lived in the narrower quarters, while Okoi, her children, and Shigeko—who had come from Akita to the capital—resided in the larger home.

“Elder Sister loved children, so they all adored her, but now she’s had to let all three go and has taken in a six-year-old girl to ease her loneliness.”

“The older girl from Yanagibashi was married off. Another was taken in by Mr. Katsura Jirō when she was twelve and recently wedded too.”
“That child was raised with my own hands from infancy—she’ll always think of me as her mother.”
“When I visited Jirō’s place, they acted so reserved toward me on account of that couple there… It pained me enough to stop going altogether.”
“The loneliness when I had to part with them—if I tried to describe it…”

Somberly, something seeped into the hearts of those who heard her.

“The boy was made heir to the Ando family, but due to his birth mother’s connections—ties that grew deep through her lineage—the stepfather began meddling in household matters and voicing his opinions at every turn.”

“With all manner of troubles piling up—from society’s endless misunderstandings to having to sell the spacious house in Ōi—I ended up sending that child away along with the entire household to the other party.”

“Since I gave twelve thousand yen each to three children from the fifty thousand yen, there wasn’t much left over.”
“And so since Lord Katsura’s passing, we’ve managed to get by for nearly ten years up to today.”
“There’s nothing left now—we started this business because we had nothing left, right, Sis?”

“My mother passed away, and the remaining foster mother died last year.”
“Like a persimmon fallen from a tree—truly alone… but thanks to this sister being here……”

For a time, the three fell silent.

Ken-chan, wearing something white with his hair neatly combed to show the teeth of the comb, brought over hot coffee with an air of composure.
The three silently put in sugar cubes and stirred.

"In Elder Sister’s view, it seems she had intended to live off the lingering prestige of her patron without doing anything, as long as there were things he had left for her."
"I won’t say it was exactly so, but it certainly seemed that was her line of thinking."
"I think that when she had lost everything, she believed it was then that she would return to being Okoi."

“When I had parted from everyone through life or death and lost everything, I deeply felt that from today onward my own life would truly begin.”
“But if I started teahouses or restaurants, people would assume I’d reverted to my old ways since there’d be no clear distinction. So I thought—if I must begin something, I’d rather choose this kind of business where everyone keeps watch over me. That’s how I became the managing director of the stock company here.”

“Even if they talk about preserving chastity, enforcing it, or rather failing to uphold it—I have witnessed my Elder Sister’s conduct.”
“She has lived admirably like this, so…”

Ms. Shigeko stepped away when a customer arrived.
Seizing that moment as an opportune time， they inquired into matters that would have been difficult to broach had someone remained present.

Having once heard from a woman—born in Yotsuya and still residing there—that Okoi’s birthplace was now at the opposite corner where a beef shop called Mikawaya stood，verification was sought regarding this woman’s origins about whom so many rumors swirled.
And about Ms．Shigeko as well—
It turned out that this was indeed true，and Mikawaya had kindly taken over stewardship of that property as well．

“Was it time for our house’s decline? A lacquer shop’s craft—the way of blending lacquer—was difficult, they say, almost like a closely guarded secret.”
By the time my birth father—who had been adopted into the family—passed away, even the Masuya shop that had endured for generations became untenable.
When my sister’s father came and we had no choice but to relinquish the house, I was sent as a foster daughter to the Ando family while my sister went off to the Akita mines with our parents.
Later, when I heard my mother had fallen ill, I took her into my care.
Since there were many children back in Akita, I insisted on keeping my only sister and had her inherit our family home in Kataoka.
Thanks to everyone’s support, this café somehow manages to keep going.
There were discussions about ending the stock company and making it solely my shop.
“If I can manage for another year or two,” she said, “I plan to hand it over to my sister and start work of my own.”

She came over to the sofa, settled in comfortably after sharing such confessions, said "Excuse me," and picked up a cigarette for the first time.

At that moment, I thought Ms. Okoi’s future life would be rather faded in hue and devoid of warmth.
She had lived savoring the subtleties of Kiyomoto, Shinnai, or Utazawa—styles like sankyoku and nijōri—with Uzaemon.
She had known the pride of monopolizing a prime minister’s favor and regarding even society’s esteemed figures as worthless.
What could emerge hereafter to enrich her life enough to satisfy her?
That remained doubtful.

In any case, her past had been far too brilliant.
It was too vivid.

Even so, what could redeem it must be one with a pure soul, fervent passion, and love.
She must be none other than a pure love she had never known since birth. But sadly, her passion, squandered in vain, had lost its purity and consumed her youth more than her outward form.

One could understand her fondness for children and the sentiment that she could not bear the loneliness without them.
Nothing would disturb her complex feelings as little as children.
Her true comfort—her friends—could be nothing but innocent children.

As I spoke with Ms. Okoi, I sensed in her voice a quality that made one think she was someone acquainted with hardship.
Beauty, circumstance, voice—these too I resolved to observe more carefully hereafter.
Then I noticed two horizontal lines across Ms.koi's throat that troubled me.
Truly, no beautiful woman bearing such lines lacks a story of suffering.

To contemplate this—life feels bleak.
Then grows wantonly devoid of purpose.

—Taisho Year 10 (January 1921)—

Showa 10 (1935) Postscript: Last year, as proprietress of the Akasaka Tamachi teahouse “Koi-zumi,” Ms. Okoi was charged with perjury—the initial spark of a certain major incident—and detained pending trial, as the public well knows; her shaved-head pilgrimage appearance also enlivened the society pages of newspapers.

Ah!
How far will it roll, this dewdrop—